


A Drinking Song

by churchonthehill



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Gen, M/M, Tbh this fic isn't very good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 16:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17389922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchonthehill/pseuds/churchonthehill
Summary: I intend on making this into a chapter fic. Honestly, the inspiration for this lil drabble came to me very suddenly, so the plot is rather non-existent. Take it for what it is, I guess. Shrugs. Tbh, once I figure out a central plot I can probably hope to do more with this piece.





	A Drinking Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can.”
> 
> Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath

' Restaurant and Motel: Open all year ' the sign reads. It is off-white, dirty, the carmine of the painted letters is chipped and damaged, bleeding along the wood like the heavy-red trail of nail marks left across flesh. 

Dennis leaves the rover in the motel parking lot, swinging his keys 'round his finger once before pocketing them. Mac is inside; he's supposed to be snagging them a room, if only for a night. 

Feeling his cheeks brush pink, the thought of Mac attempting to barter with what he imagines is a woman well into her fifties with a frizzy haircut sends him barrelling towards the entrance; how embarrassing. Dennis bets with a certainty that he'll collapse from unattended heart failure if Mac'll further devastate their night. 

Their night. The sound of it is absolutley grating, like the worst Carcass album you've ever heard ( which in Dennis' humble opinion, was all of 'em ). But there is truly something viscerally cataclysmic about putting the possessive-plural before night. Again, Their Night. Therefore implying, that Mac and him were a cohesive unit; an amalgamated entity. A monstrous essence connected at the hip, flesh joining with flesh, two hearts, and one stomach to help breakdown metabolic elements into simple compounds.

And the room Mac was able to cop is shit. It looks like a scene out of a Tarantino film. Man, fuck Tarantino.

The eggshell of the walls is peeling; Dennis finds he can chip the color clean off with a scratch of his nail, revealing the awful grey underneath. Cobwebs cluster in the unlit corners and the TV is a ninties model, complete with VCR entry. Although, most unfortunate of all, is the fact that there's only one mattress, which happens to be covered in those god awful polyester, floral-print, sheets. Not even a fucking couch in the room! 

Dennis rubs his nose: maybe he can convince Mac to sleep on the floor like a dog.

Though, he hates the thought of having his skin come into contact with anything in this place; it's so dusty. So he opts to keep his jacket on, even if in-doors. On the otherhand, Mac seems less insecure about the state of their room. It probably has something to do with his upbringing, he was after all, borne of the slums. He kicks his beat-up combat boots off into a corner, leaping onto the mattress and folding his arms behind his head as he leans on the headboard. Mac is quicker to adapt. Dennis is not, and it worries him thinking Mac would be better off in the hands of natural selection.

" You should take your jacket off, Den. You'll get hot and sweaty...and it'll be all gross and stuff." Mac whines in maternal song. And Dennis turns to him, his sapphire eyes narrowed to slits. 

He watches Mac carefully, examining the dark bush of hair flourishing underneath his armpits to the gold cross-and-chain laid lethargically across the neck of his wife-beater. Dennis harrumphs, sliding his jacket off and thrusting it across the room in a mild display of rebellion. He cranks open a window, blowing smoke from between his plastic lips, an ode to the cigarette lain gracefully between his thumb and forefinger. 

Truthfully, Dennis doesn't know how they ended up like this. He doesn't really care to know, because he'll make sure to forget about it by tomorrow morning. His own tongue tastes like cigarettes and day old beer - his lips like drug store cherry lip-balm, according to Mac. An infomercial on the 'ShamWow' plays muffled in the background and Dennis' mind wanders; Mac places a calloused palm on his bicep, dragging him back down to Earth.

It was a chaste kiss. Trembling and nubile like a newborn infant. Their lips pressed together, if hardly for a moment, but Dennis swore he felt the cosmos collide and something new was borne in his veins. 

He hates Mac. He could cry. 

He doesn't.

He sleeps in his car, his cheek sticking to the leather seat. He wants to eat Mac's heart raw, served on a silver platter.


End file.
